


Time after time

by Tripawed



Series: Time series [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Amnesia, Angels, Crying, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Soulmates, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tripawed/pseuds/Tripawed
Summary: Hannibal is an angel, he's been bored for decades, when he meets Will Graham he is interested. Why does being near Will feel so right? Why does harming him feel so wrong?





	Time after time

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of set in an alternative season 1 Hannibal, however the order and locations of episodes has been mixed up.

Hannibal lowers himself into the chair in Jack's office, watching as the mortal man shuffles through papers and sits himself down slowly. He knows that Jack is being slower than he would be naturally as a display of dominance, it amuses him rather than irritates. As though any mortal had the ability to threaten an angel, humans are weak, short lived, frail in general. This one is edging from stocky into fat, he's older, not a threat to most other mortals except for the powers his position of authority bestow upon him.

Still appearances must be maintained, so he ducks his head a little, sits a little lower in his seat than normal, strives to look suitably cowed by Jack Crawford.

Sitting across from Jack, he's just gearing up to open the discussion towards the profile he's to be working on, when the door opens and a small man shuffles in. He looks unkempt, his curly hair needs a good brushing and the clothes he's wearing would be turned down by a naked man in a snow storm.

Hannibal wrinkles a lip, just slightly before smoothing out his facial features, hiding away his emotions allowing his face to reflect only calm serenity. The young man slumps into the chair next to him, and despite there being a clear foot of space between them he can feel him. The hairs on the arm closest rise up as though the young man is made entirely out of static charge. Unnerved he shifts away, resentment rising up at being made to feel unsettled by a human.

That's all it is, he feels unsettled, irritated and not prepared to stifle it he turns slightly to needle at the boy.

Ignoring the warmth he feels at the sight of the badly dressed man, he snarks while maintaining his placid facial expression, “I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

The boy, man really, snaps his head up, looks between him and Jack before  blurting, “Whose profile are you working on? Whose profile is he working on?”

His voice gets defensive and shrill, Hannibal wants to savour the smell of his confusion and instinctive fear but to his own discontent a scent which usually invokes positive responses from him, when it drifts off Will is sharp and sour in his nose. It burns at his throat and eyes, his irritation at the man-puppy boils over into rage. He hides it adeptly as has become second nature after so many years.

Still he sits back and let's Will have the last word and storm out, then turns back to Jack trying to not smirk to obviously. It's far easier than it should be.

When Will leaves he takes the warmth in the room with him but Jack doesn't seem to notice. Hannibal sits and nods along for a few moments until he can extract himself gracefully, all the while imagining the meals he could make out of Jack, pictures serving him up to his colleagues and loved ones. It's a surprisingly pleasing though even for him.

* * *

 

He heads home, alone, his house is as grand and as elaborate as it's ever been, but it feels huge, empty and sad for the first time in his memory. Thoughts of Will plague him, becoming more and more agitated he shoves the thoughts aside confused and resentful at the thrum over his skin at the very thought of the boy.

Angry, he leaves the house to hunt, fueled by the desire to add to his larders, to build up a store for lean times, in case he need to provide nourishment for othe-

No, for himself, there are no others, he turned from his creator long ago. Decades ago, maybe longer, he cannot quite recall the moment he chose to stop heeding his makers summons, the day he forged his own path.

Nor, can he recall the reason he turned away, what drove him from the light into this new life, scratching out a living amongst the mortals. Sometimes he dreams though, he feels as though he's on the cusp of remembering when he wakes, feels the memories drain away, like water held in his cupped hands, seeping between his fingers, tears of grief on his face. Sometimes he feels a distant trace of those emotions at the opera, feels long dormant things shift and slide, and he cannot contain his despair.

It's only when he really stops to look at his latest kill that he realises that he has killed the doppelganger of the very victim whose murderer Will Graham seeks. He pauses and looks at what his subconscious has done, she has been truly elevated now, in a way that these petty cattle do not deserve, still perhaps there is use in her yet. Watching Will Graham find the answers he seeks will doubtless prove amusing.

* * *

 

Cooking her is therapeutic, the rhythm, the careful precision is calming almost meditative, for the first time since meeting Will Graham he calms, feels his tense shoulders relax. Sausages made, he climbs up the stairs and heads to his bedroom, he might look roughly human, but with wings comes instincts. Letting his wings lose, he climbs into his bed to roost and preen, eventually he sleeps.

* * *

 

He dreams, wakes with despair in his heart and tears on his face. Nursing an ancient loss that has never healed.

* * *

 

His grief is soothed away, gone like mist on a hot morning when the hotel door opens and Will is standing there blinking and disheveled. The smile that creeps into his face surprises even him and he forces it away, telling himself it's only due to anticipation of what he's about to feed Will.

Instead of smug superiority he feels genuine warmth and pleasure at Will’s pleased hum on first tasting Hannibal's cooking.

Restraining his urge to preen he takes a seat and joins Will at the little table. It's fascinating watching such an unusual mind at work and he follows in Will’s wake barely feeling the need to interfere. It's his lack of desire that, contrarily, makes him act. For years he hasn't allowed himself to answer even to god, he will not answer to this mortal.

He regrets it when the gunshots ring out. Horror rising sickly.

He steps casually over the body of the woman on the porch, she's as good as dead already, he has no time or sympathy to squander on meat.

The sight of Will, whole and alive, sends a wave of _something_ through him, coalescing in his stomach, sitting in a burning lump under his heart.

He tells himself it's indigestion. Curses the vicar he had for dinner last night, rude even in death, how trite.

He doesn't have to force himself to help, he finds himself talking over from Will automatically, his body moving without his mind's consent.

Will moves away instantly when he sees Hannibal, relief written vividly on his features.

* * *

 

The girl is moved in an ambulance, and he goes along with her, desperate suddenly to be out of Will’s presence. He doesn't want to feel their blue eyes burning into him, they regard him differently now. As though he's passed some test. It's unsettling.

Hannibal is used to dealing with the unknown. It is a useful skill for a murderer, murders are hard to plan to the last detail and often things must be changed on the fly. He is used to not remembering why he left heaven's legions, he's used to not remembering the source of his own suffering. He doesn't even know how he came to be.

It had been a matter of much dispute even amongst the very oldest angels. Some saying that they were the worst of god's creations, forced into eternal thralldom, doomed to serve mankind, lower creatures than themselves forever, others said they were the very best of humanity. The humans who had overthrown their pettiness, their fragility and become more. Under the weight of Will’s gaze it feels like the latter for the first time. He savours the feeling even as he flees from it.

* * *

 

He stays with the girl, tops up her life force as it begins to bleed out of her, keeps her alive until he is certain that the medics can maintain her existence under their own primitive means.

He sits by her bedside. Holds one limp hand in his, looks at the fine lines of her skin, marking it into small repeating print. Like tiles, over and over. He closes his eyes, cramped and uncomfortable in his human form nonetheless he sleeps.

* * *

 

He engineers sessions with Will, backs Jack into a corner and relishes in the oppurtunity to have Will on his own territory. It feels natural to have him there, fitting, right.

Will keeps coming back session after session, the desire to meddle with Will is smothered under a blanket of warmth in his presence. Out of Will’s sight he can make plots, scheme at what he will do, when he lays eyes on the other he cannot follow through.

Alone he chastises himself, in Will's presence the irritation fades.

* * *

 

Will comes to him after tracking a mushroom gardener, Hannibal boggles at human ingenuity sometimes, why bother going to all that trouble for vegetables? Will’s hands shake, his shoulders rigid, and for an aching moment he longs to smooth his hand over the cloth that covers them, feel the second hand warmth from Will’s skin. Will sits in his chair, it's his now all other patients are usurpers to his throne, and gazes pathetically at Hannibal, those blue eyes shimmer with need.

A sight so lovely it catches at his throat, it's only when he breathes deeply to force away the lump that is burning through his esophagus that he catches the scent of fever.

* * *

 

He edges Will into consenting to a checkup, he has to make nice with Dr, Sutcliffe to see it through. He could heal Will himself but what's the use if he never knows he was ill? Will should know who he has to thank for his recovery, surely? Sutcliffe suggests keeping Will out of the loop seeing how the disease will affect his mind as he deteriorates. Only the knowledge that if he kills Sutcliffe now he will be forced to flee and leave Will behind stays his hands.

* * *

 

It makes Sutcliffe's eventual murder all the sweeter, it's the most satisfying thing he's done in years. The iron scent of blood and the acrid stench of fear are nothing compared to the happiness that defending Will brings him. He's humming a happy tune when he looks up to see the waif woman that Will is looking for hovering in the doorway. Chuckling to himself he hands her the murder weapon, two birds with one stone. It will undoubtedly please Will if she can be brought home alive.

* * *

 

He takes Will 'chicken soup.' He watches Will watching him when he makes the gibe and Hannibal pretends to be angry, purses his lips and looks away as though offended, secretly he's delighted that animal meat is met with derision and jokes while his human offerings are met with groans of pleasure and half lidded eyes.

* * *

 

He feeds Wills dogs, while he's there he can't resist going through Wills things. Runs his hands over the places that Will has been absorbs the sights, sounds and smells that encompass the life of Will Graham.

* * *

 

He opens the door to find Will standing awkwardly in his doorstep clutching a bottle of wine his knuckles are white around the neck of the bottle. He glances down at Will's obvious outward sign of distress and knows he will have to let him go.

Torturing other humans is amusing, torturing will is unacceptable, and apparently good food is torture enough for Will. Sighing he steps back to let Will in, listens to his excuses while he shows off the meal he's making just in case the idea of it is enough to lure Will where his own company cannot.

It isn't.

Pouting isn't acceptable he reminds himself about forty times in as many seconds. Leaning forwards over the counter, with his hired chefs at his side, he reaches for the bottle that Will holds out to him, and their fingers brush.

The lightest touch of flesh on flesh.

The stone walls in his mind crumble, the chains containing his memories melt away, and he's left with everything.

The golden bond he's been missing, every minute, every second, with every beat of his heart and blink of his eyes, snaps back into existence with a crack loud enough for human ears.

“Whoah.” Will snatches his hand back shaking it, the bottle tumbles from Hannibal's nerveless grasp, he makes a determined snatch for it. His first gift from Will, misses and looks on appalled as it smashes on the floor, thick red liquid seeps free. “Electric shock.”

He barely hears Will, over the flutter of newly released memories, he stifles them, he needs to get through the next few hours and examine these in private. He cannot afford to let his cover slip, not for a moment.

Will leaves and Hannibal endures the worst three hours of his long, long life, he struggles to remain an attentive host to his guests. Struggles not to give into the desire to kill them all, be alone with his newly recovered self. Shift through the wreckage and find the truth.

Eventually they leave, he packs the chef's off early too, he can feel their bemusement, which only stokes his barely tempered fury higher. Normally none of the hired help leave until his home is returned to pristine condition. Now he can't get rid of them fast enough.

Closing the door behind them, literally as soon as the last one has passed the doorway, uncaring for how rude he must appear, he leans his back against the door then slides down in until he's sitting in the hallway, knees to chest.

Digging the palms of his hands into his eyes he tries to sort through the tangled knot of memories and emotions he feels.

Grief, he remembers his grief and rage at Will’s, he hadn't been called Will then, death. During one of the World War's, he'd been called away fighting a fracas of their own against demons and darkness, the bloodshed of the humans upsetting the balance of light and dark. When he'd managed to escape for a moment all he'd found was Will’s mangled corpse, his blood a huge lake of red.

In every life they had ever lived together, _every_ last one, Hannibal had been the last thing Will had ever seen, been the last thing Will had known before the darkness of death. He'd been the first thing Will had looked up at when he'd been born back into these mortal planes, Hannibal had cradled Will's new life to his chest every time, the first touch Will had ever known had always been his. In every life, from Knights on horseback, defending the holy land, to fighting in the colosseum, fighting tooth and nail on hit sand, the cheer of the crowd a muted roar, thick iron smell of blood, hot and rich in the air they had breathed together.

He'd been Will’s playmate, gradually as the years had rolled on sliding into the role of bedmate but at all times his soulmate, a constant throughout the ages and the life cycles. Will's foundations, the homeland he kept returning to.

Keening, he grips his hands in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt and the first sobs, gut wrenching and utterly heart broken, burst free. That last time Will had died alone, pained and afraid, no Hannibal to hold him close, ease him gently from this life, knowing he would be there to welcome him into the next, and part of Hannibal had died too.

He'd destroyed everything around them. He remembers now, descending and leveling the earth in every direction, extinguishing human lives like candles in a breeze. Thankfully in war time it hadn't raised too many eyebrows, both sides had assumed hostile work of the other.

He'd _forgotten_ though.

Forgotten and left Will alone, he hadn't _been there._ He should have been there, he was supposed to be there. For everything, first breath, first word, those first wobbling steps towards him. The childhood fights, the woes of adolescence, he was supposed to have guided Will through it all, to have sheltered him from the worst and celebrated with him the best.

His sobs come harsher now, jagged and rough, weeping his grief into his knees as he makes himself sick with his despair. Choking on his misery.

It explains so much he realises. So much about Will, he'd been alone all this time, no anchor for his emotions, missing something his whole life and never knowing what, never being able to understand a loss he'd been born with. 

Unable to stand under the weight of his inadequacy he crawls up the stairs and into his big bed, letting his wings slide free, he huddles under his own wingspan, and sobs into his covers until he can't breathe through his nose and has to calm a little to prevent himself from suffocating.

The tears slide over his face as he cries himself to sleep, there are fresh ones on his face as he wakes.

He stumbles into the shower, wills his tears to stop and tries to look presentable, if he's going to win Will’s heart, apologise for all the wasted years, the unending bleak misery of their separation at his hands, he needs to look his best. Not tear stained and blotchy.

* * *

 

When the doorbell rings he's not quite dressed, still bare foot, he answers. It's Will and like that all is good and right in the world. Hannibal wants to stand on his door step.and drink in the sight of Will, whole and blessedly alive, forever. Will’s eyes slide left and right in his anxiety, his hands wring together, he bites his lower lip into his mouth before blurting. “I kissed Alana.”


End file.
